Page 4 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)
Chapter Two
The little bell jingled above the front door in the shop, alerting Marguerite to a visiting patron.
She’d first seen the contraption while visiting a shop in London and went about procuring a similar device for herself, since she far preferred working in her back parlor when she had no customers.
As a woman who had been forced to make her way in the world from a young age, she had developed an eye for efficiency and constant improvement.
Marguerite placed the half-stitched pink brocade bodice on the sofa and stood, smoothing her gown and pinning a smile in place.
When she had come to England as a girl of eight, she hadn’t known any English at all.
The modiste she’d been placed with had all but erased her French accent, beating proper English into her with every stitch and seam.
It became clear as Marguerite had aged, however, that in her particular line of work her heritage could lend her gravitas.
The accent that had once been scrubbed clean was woven back into her dialect until she found a careful balance, one that reminded the patrons where she hailed from but was folded into enough English they were kept comfortably in their homeland.
They wanted to walk the High Street of Harewood but feel as though they had purchased fashions directly from the shops of Paris.
Would that they knew Marguerite had lived twenty years on English soil and had learned everything she knew of dressmaking here.
That a woman just on the other side of the county had taken her in, almost directly off the boat, and apprenticed her into the craft, hoping to snuff out anything that set Marguerite apart as French for her own safety.
Marguerite had been Mary Perry for most of her English life.
Marguerite Perreau was the third name she had been forced to grow accustomed to, and she hoped it would be her last. Learning to answer to something new took time and a certain level of risk.
She loved her little shop, the tiny town of Harewood, and the people she was coming to know.
Once she had put off her widow’s weeds, disposing of the black gowns three months after moving to Harewood, she’d felt fully free.
This seemed as good a place as any to live out the rest of her life.
And there were the letters, too.
Pushing through the doorway into the shop, she trained her smile on the pair of women admiring a pale yellow silk she had brought out earlier. She needed to sell it, for it had been sitting too long on her shelves, and she hoped it would catch someone’s eye.
It appeared Miss Kimball’s attention had been caught.
“For the Faversham dinner, Mama?” the lady asked.
“Yellow, dear? I think not. You need to draw attention, not blend into the settee.”
Folding her hands primly, Marguerite gently cleared her throat.
Mrs. Kimball shifted, swiveling to look at the modiste. She held a quizzing glass to her eye, enlarging just the one in an owlish way.
Marguerite had to force her expression to remain neutral. “There will be gentlemen at this dinner, no? ”
“Indeed,” Miss Kimball said, rubbing the silk between her fingers. She dropped the fabric and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “If rumors are to be believed, there will be men we have not met. New gentlemen.”
Which meant the stakes of the evening were ever higher. It was no surprise the very first thing they did was rush to Marguerite’s shop. It was shocking she hadn’t received a summons from Lady Faversham already.
“You will permit me to give my opinion?” Marguerite waited.
She had observed her mistress over the years and taken more notes on how not to interact with customers than how to deal with them.
If there was a natural talent in being the dressmaker for snobbish women, Marguerite had been gifted it.
She could wrap them around her thumb like a limp ribbon.
Compelling Mrs. Kimball to choose the yellow silk was her objective now, and it would be done without very much difficulty.
The fabric needed to be sold, after all, if she wanted to order anything fresh.
Mrs. Kimball swished her wrist, implying Marguerite could proceed.
Marguerite nodded slowly, her eyes flicking unhurriedly over the bolts lining the shelves, as though she were considering each one.
“A woman who chooses to stand out in too dramatic a fashion will sometimes find herself the center of attention for the wrong reasons, no? A figure so fine as yours, Miss Kimball, ought to stand on its own—the gown should embellish an already glorious woman. It is my belief…”
Silence hung in the shop. Marguerite let the words dangle, pretending to worry her lip.
“Well, go on,” Mrs. Kimball said impatiently.
“Oh, I shouldn’t. Truly. I will make the gown you want most, madame. Do not listen to me.”
“Do finish,” Miss Kimball said, gripping the edge of the counter. She blinked her large, round eyes, and for a brief moment Marguerite felt sorry for the girl. It could not be easy having such a hawk for a mother.
“It is my belief a man might notice a shocking gown first, but a more dignified gown will stay in his head much longer. Would you prefer to surprise the new gentlemen or leave a lasting impression?” She clasped her hands and waited.
At least she agreed with the things she told them.
If Mrs. Kimball took her advice this time, her daughter could very well stand a chance of not blending in with the other ladies at their upcoming dinner.
For both Miss Kimball’s sake and that of her yellow silk, Marguerite hoped she had said enough. She was fairly confident she had.
“Look through the plates,” the matron snapped. “I will consider the fabrics.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Or perhaps Marguerite hadn’t said enough. Drat.
She retreated behind the counter to wait in case she was called on to answer a question, hands clasped in front and eyes on the women.
When she had bought this shop from the older woman who had run it before, she was unsure if it would bring in enough business to keep her occupied.
Marguerite had a sum squirreled away for just this purpose—not that her parents would ever have countenanced it—and she put her faith into this place.
Harewood boasted a small number of eccentric wealthy women who needed new gowns with regularity, and between them and the neighboring ladies, Marguerite was kept busy enough.
“Perhaps blue,” Mrs. Kimball said.
Marguerite’s gaze snapped to the pale blue ball gown sitting in her window. She had made it to entice women into the shop, but it had the adverse effect of influencing many of them to choose blue fabrics as well. Perhaps it was nearly time to sew a new gown for the window .
Yellow, if this silk did not sell.
“My last two gowns were also blue,” Miss Kimball said.
“Hm.”
Marguerite waited. She had honed the skill of patience with years of practice. Some patrons demanded more fortitude than others, but everyone required some. The third time Mrs. Kimball’s eyes darted back to the yellow silk, Marguerite knew she had won.
“Have you found a decent plate?” Mrs. Kimball asked her daughter.
“I believe so. Look at this, Mama.”
They bent their heads over the open book, discussing the gathered fabric on the hem and draping train of the pictured gown.
Mrs. Kimball lifted her nose. “We’ve chosen.”
“Lovely.” Marguerite stepped forward. “The ball gown with the gathered train will suit you nicely, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you.” Miss Kimball blushed prettily. The yellow silk was going to make her glow.
“Will you alter it slightly?” her mother said. “I should like to have an original design.”
Of course she did. “In what way?”
“You are the artist.”
Marguerite turned the book and flipped a few pages until she found an evening gown with roses clustered on the hem. “We could add flowers in this manner.” She flipped two more pages and pointed to the back of another gown. “Or a cape on the back that would sweep like the train, but more .”
Mrs. Kimball’s eyes glowed. “Both.”
“Mama, is that not too much? I should not like to be a spectacle.”
“If it is primarily done in the yellow silk, it will not be overbearing.” Mrs. Kimball glanced up for confirmation.
Marguerite nodded. “That is what I believe as well. ”
“Then it is decided,” Mrs. Kimball said with a curt nod.
The door opened, letting in a rush of cool autumn air as the small bell jingled overhead.
“I will be right—” Marguerite glanced up and grew still, her words stuttering to a stop.
Samuel Harding stood in the doorway, Claude the traitor lounging in his arms. Tall and lithe, Mr. Harding didn’t so much as wear his clothing as he displayed it.
His dark gold hair was combed beneath a tall gray hat, and his sharp jaw was angled toward Marguerite.
Shock momentarily flooded her body, but she quickly corrected it, clearing her throat as though she had merely stumbled over a cough.
“Excuse me, Mr. Harding. I will be with you in a moment.”
“I am in no hurry,” he said magnanimously, dipping his head in a semblance of a bow to her before doing the same toward the Kimballs. “Ladies.”
“Mr. Harding,” they echoed.
Miss Kimball’s gaze lingered on the gentleman before dropping to the book on the counter.
If she was considering how her gown would be received, she ought to have more faith in Marguerite’s wisdom.
Yes, she had been trying to sell her silk, but she also knew a good deal about people.
She’d spent most of her life observing them under Mrs. Gladstone’s tutelage, and her observations had taught her much.
Like now, how Mr. Harding had immediately turned away from the women, carrying Claude toward the assortment of buttons and ribbons on the other side of the shop.
He was not interested in being drawn into their conversation.
Judging by the way he held Claude, his back to them, he did not wish to discuss the cat, either.